I sent Jaffa up to the masthead, and he came down puzzled, wanting me to land him so that he could find out what had happened.
He smiled when I suggested danger. "You wait, sir," he said, and disappeared down below.
My chum began making a signal to me, asking if I could spare any matches, so I forgot about Jaffa until, going back to the cabin, I came across him rigged out as a coast Persian or Baluchi—I didn't know anything of the different tribes, and I don't now—a regular low-caste, unkempt, miserable creature, dirtier than the dirtiest. The only thing remaining of the immaculate Jaffa was his dignified smile.
"You send me shore, sir, when dark comes. I go Bungi; find out things; come back to-morrow night—same time."
Mr. Scarlett told me that no self-respecting Afghan would waste a cartridge or blunt a knife on him in that rig, and that he would run very little risk; so, after sunset, and before the moon rose, I took him ashore myself in the dinghy, feeling rather ashamed to let him disappear behind the sand-hills alone, and promising to be there for him the next night.
At sunrise next morning, just as we were preparing to go to sea for the day, he was seen strolling calmly over the sand-hills, not even deigning to wave his arms to attract attention. One thing was certain: he could not be in any danger.
I stopped heaving in the cable, lowered the dinghy, and pulled ashore myself, jolly glad to get some exercise.
"What's the news?" I called out, as the dinghy took the ground.
"Bungi all gone—houses burnt—men and old women lying all round—killed—no one else there—no young women—no children—only dogs and some goats—no Baluchis—no camels—no Afghans—all nothing."
"What's the meaning of that?" I asked in horror and astonishment.